A Letter from an Angry Woman
The birth of fire, the heart of anger and my 'warning' to the unsuspecting reader
My anger first came into form when I was fifteen and living with an alcoholic parent…prior to that I had been a purely pure-hearted kid (really), the kind who somewhat regularly got a talking to for being too sweet and open-hearted.
“The world will eat you alive if you keep loving it this much”, my parents would warn me. I remember quietly wondering “Isn’t that the point of living?”
The birth canal for my fire was formed by a simple love for the truth and a particularly strong passion for protecting life’s underdogs. I thought it was strange that someone could slowly drink themselves towards death and no one other than the child in the room had the guts to call out the demon. This courage quickly threw me in the proverbial boxing ring with an addict, and I quickly became the underdog in the fight.
If it’s not already clear by my tone, I now feel entirely neutral about this series of events — grateful even. Proud even. For years I had prayed for a Joan-of-Arc-like spiritual assignment, not realizing that my natural disposition up until then lacked grit or any discernment for what makes a ‘good’ or worthy fight. The painful experience at home propelled me into the kaliedoscope edges of some sense of purpose — I picked up martial arts, I dumped all my shit-talking girlfriends, and I started a human rights club at school with my best friend (we named it ‘Outrage’). As a younger child I used to close my eyes and only see blue, but by the time I was a full-blown teenager everything inside me had become a provocative, fiery red. An activist was born.
I am proud to be an angry woman.
My anger feeds my eros with what’s heartfelt and fertile.
My anger trims the fat around my widening social circle.
My anger protects the bounty of my love from lazy vultures.
My anger proliferates the enduring story of my beloved ancestors.
My anger keeps my caramel skin sun-kissed and supple.
My anger gives a swag and grace to my gait that isn’t subtle.
My anger jolts the meaning into my every chosen move.
And believe me, it is my anger that is warming up this room.
I will show you my teeth like they are the pearly gates you must meet before reaching my personal, hand-carved well into that endless holy grief. My anger is never the final destination but is sometimes the battle you must beat before hearing the heartbeat of my undying devotion. Beneath the heat of these flames there is an ocean, and it simply would not be correct against the laws of nature for me to bring you to the deep end of my love if you yourself don’t even know what you’re made of.
Most people confuse anger with a lack of social decency or precision, yet for me it’s quite the opposite. My anger is an artist. She is dissatisfied with partial beauty, disturbed by partial effort, and tolerates only humility and excellence. Have you ever met a fire that demanded passivity? There is an aliveness in me that is only interested in interacting with aliveness, which I have learned can rather suddenly put me on the arbitrary list of villains for people who cling onto what’s expired.
Well-meaning anger will ask you to rise because in her eyes we are all seeds pressed deep into the soil of Consciousness — watered by the tears of transformation yet dormant until the light shines perfectly on the imagination of divine will that lives inside of every dark place. If you are willing to accept it, anger may be the grace you thought might come in the shape of a lottery ticket or a lucky day. If you want a fire under your ass, you’ve got to first wrestle with it until you’ve reluctantly found yourself on top of it. You’ve got to let yourself get a little hot and bothered, maybe even burned.